My friend Lindsey has cancer. She is 25.
Lindsey and I worked together at Ragan for about a year. She sat in the cubicle across from me. We would ride bikes to work together, eat lunch outside when it was warm, and see improv shows over the weekend.
Our conversations centered on what two typical twenty-somethings would talk about: work, vacations, cooking, shopping, parties, Chicago, and boys. I don’t think we ever talked about cancer. There was never any reason to.
Last fall, Lindsey moved back to her home state of California to go to graduate school for urban planning. A few months after she moved out there, she called to tell me she had pancreatic neuroendocrine cancer.
At the time, I didn’t know what the words “pancreatic neuroendocrine” meant.
But I knew the word “cancer.” I just didn’t know anybody my age—or someone I was friends with—could have it.
A few weeks ago, Lindsey started a blog about being young and having cancer. She sent the link to a group of people and said, “Just because it’s about cancer doesn’t mean it’s depressing.”
And really, her blog isn’t depressing. She still sounds like the Lindsey I know.